THE HOUSE WAS NEXT to the old Baptist church. This was a white, wooden chapel of worship that had been erected at some point in the 19th century at the behest of prosperous local businessmen and farmers who were tired of traveling to town for Sunday services. The ground here in Carolina was so low and wet that one often felt as if one was half underwater.
That was the church, but I should talk about the house. This too was old and wooden and had seen multiple additions. A screened in front porch. A kitchen in back. Such raised areas of swampland were called pocosins by the original inhabitants of the country, some of whom were among our predecessors. This house was erected upon one, but for reasons unknown to me, it was now inhabited by Uncle Osvald, who was my ex-wife’s mother’s brother and who had been, at least until recently, quite dead and sleeping off eternity in a cemetery in Estonia.
But times had changed and in his newly undead, Carolina form, Uncle Osvald had become a somewhat crusty but dedicated sawyer at the local mill. He was the kind of man who drank a beer every night while yelling at the TV set, slept with his dirty socks on, rarely trimmed a graying beard but had no reason to. But he was practical and kept his keys on him at all times. There was that big silver-colored hoop extending from his alligator skin belt and it jangled as he walked around. You could hear him going outside to the smokehouse, or just for a cigarette.
This is why when returning from Sunday service at the church one day, I discovered that the family house was locked and I had really nowhere to go. Stranger still was the appearance of another unknown Estonian relative, who called himself Jesper and claimed to be my ex-wife’s third, long lost brother. He was a lanky character, his attire showed signs of manual labor, stained pants, etc. He had a rough, unshaven face, his dark hair was going white, and he looked sort of like a Turk, even though he was an Estonian from North Carolina. None of this made any sense, especially since Jesper had never been mentioned once in the previous 25 years.
How could the family have kept the existence of Jesper hidden for so long? Not one photo of him. Not a mention. It was if he had been cut out of every photo following a Stalinist purge. “Where have you been?” I asked. “Where have you been all these years?” “Away,” Jesper told me. I had to take the newly discovered third brother at his word. He was my children’s uncle.
Jesper told me it would be a while until Osvald got back from the sawmill. I told him not to worry. I had a car and the swamps were calling. I’d drive across Perquimans, Pasquotank and Camden into Currituck, ride the road to Powells Point. The ancient village of the Poteskeet. That’s where I was heading.
north! 